The Breakup
by Virginiana
Summary: How Andrew and Sam might have come to an end.
1. Chapter 1: The Telephone Call

**Author's note: This story diverges from canon (in which Andrew breaks up with Sam by letter in _Invasion_), but readers should know that it was written a number of years ago, before that episode aired.**

_Wednesday 4 March 1942, half-past ten in the evening_

"Sam! Telephone!"

A young woman wearing the uniform of the St. John's Ambulance Brigade shouted the words up the boarding-house stairs. Moments later a quick, light step could be heard descending the flight and Samantha Stewart appeared clad in nightdress and slippers, long auburn curls brushed out loose over the shoulders of her dressing gown. "Thanks, Elsie," she said, flashing her housemate a quick smile as she headed for the alcove where the phone was housed. "Hello?"

"Sam. It's me, Andrew."

"Andrew!" She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. It had been nearly a month since he'd last called and even longer since she'd had a letter from him. "How are you?"

"Fine. Sorry it's been so long since I've rung. It's beastly, I know, but we've been so busy here. They've stepped up the training schedule for the Beaufighter; we've been at it seven days a week."

"It's all right," she replied immediately, feeling slightly ashamed of herself for her annoyance at his long silence. While not as bad as when he'd been a combat pilot, she knew that his job as a pilot training officer was stressful. It was her duty as his girl, wasn't it, to be supportive and encouraging and not make demands? "It's good to hear from you. I'm glad you're all right. Any chance you'll be able to get home on leave soon, do you think?"

"Ummm … not sure." His voice trailed off into an awkward silence.

_He sounds odd_, she thought. _Strained. Perhaps he's heard of another pilot friend who's been killed_. She certainly knew him well enough to tell when he had something on his mind so she waited patiently, sure that he would elaborate on whatever was bothering him. After all, that had been the pattern of their relationship from the very first – Andrew confessing his fears, his doubts and his worries into her sympathetic ears. "What is it, Andrew?" she prompted gently when he didn't speak.

She was utterly unprepared for his next words. "Look, Sam, there's something I have to tell you. I'm sorry, I don't know quite how to say this. The thing is … I'm getting married."

* * *

A quarter of an hour later Sam huddled on her bed wrestling with the tumult of emotions unleashed by Andrew's announcement. Upset? Heartbroken? Humiliated? She didn't know precisely _how_ she was meant to feel after having been discarded so unceremoniously by the first real boyfriend she'd ever had.

It had been a year since Andrew had been removed from operational status and posted to Debden to train new pilots in the skills he'd acquired in a Spitfire cockpit. During that time his visits home had gradually grown less frequent and inevitably the couple had begun to grow apart. When he'd told her he was to be transferred to RAF Church Fenton in December she had wondered if the time had come to make a clean break between them. She'd given it a lot of thought, but in the end she had remained silent. His last visit home before leaving for Yorkshire had been over Christmas; to break things off then seemed unnecessarily cruel. Besides, Andrew had been relaxed and in good spirits and they'd had several enjoyable evenings together. Though he'd never used the word "love" he seemed genuinely fond of her, as she was of him, and her tears at their parting had been real.

Since then, however, she'd had exactly two letters and three phone calls from him. Meanwhile she was watching the other girls in her boarding house dressing up for dates to restaurants, nightclubs and the pictures with a seemingly endless parade of handsome young men in uniform while she stayed home. The social whirl had picked up considerably this winter with the opening of an American air base not far from town. Sam had received quite a few invitations herself, but as Andrew's girl she always refused them politely, if with increasing regret. Sometimes she'd wondered if she was foolish to socialise only with her girl friends or with groups from the station – after all, Andrew had never asked her not to see other men, but she knew she'd feel disloyal if she stepped out with anyone else.

He had also never promised to remain true to her – _well, obviously_, she thought bitterly, her hands balling into fists in the pockets of her dressing gown. It went without saying that a good-looking young man with an easy manner and pilot's wings on his tunic would be a magnet for female attention. Sam was aware that Andrew had had a long string of girlfriends before her, and she knew more about his relationship with a certain young lady named Violet than she'd ever let on. It hadn't taken much effort to figure out with whom the blonde had been – or what they'd been doing – when she hadn't come home the night her roommate Connie was murdered. Violet had expected to marry Andrew, she suddenly remembered, but the relationship had ended abruptly for reasons Sam never knew.

And now there was this girl in Yorkshire. What had he said her name was? Millie, that was it. A WAAF at Church Fenton. She'd got her hooks into him good and proper from the sound of it. _Married! Andrew?_ It seemed incredible. He'd always seemed – well, almost _scornful_ of his fellow pilots who'd got engaged or married, whether because of the dangers of the job or because of his own fickle nature she'd never been quite sure. And he hadn't just got engaged, he was getting _married_. Later this week. What on earth could have prompted such an astonishing reversal?

It suddenly clicked. His relationship with Violet, now this girl in Yorkshire … _oh, Lord._ She drew in a sharp breath. He'd got her into trouble and now he had to do the "decent thing" by her. That _had_ to be it.

Sam threw herself facedown onto her pillow as hot tears of humiliation rose to her eyes. Lord, how stupid she'd been! She should have realised right away … as a vicar's daughter, she'd seen hasty marriages before and knew perfectly well what they usually meant. Here she'd been sitting at home loyally declining invitations from attractive fellows while he'd been up there in Yorkshire doing … well, doing what he'd been doing with this _Millie_ to get her in a family way. And he hadn't wasted any time over it, either; for heaven's sake, he'd barely been posted there two months! He'd probably been enjoying the favours of other girls at Debden, too. Why hadn't she seen it?

_Well, he never seemed to expect anything like that from_ me, she thought miserably, dashing away tears with her fingers. _Of course not_, she answered herself. _He knows perfectly well you weren't brought up to behave like that, so he never tried. He knows about Dad. Besides, _his _father would have killed him._

_His father! _Sam abruptly rolled over onto her back and pushed herself up on her elbows with a hollow gasp._ Lord have mercy. What on earth is Mr Foyle going to say?_

* * *

Up in Church Fenton, Andrew Foyle had slipped into the bar to order another whisky before returning to the call box in the pub lounge. As difficult as the first telephone call had been, he knew that the next one was likely to be worse.


	2. Chapter 2: Andrew's News

"I beg your pardon?" said Christopher Foyle.

"Her name is Mildred," Andrew went on. "Mildred Sloan. From Lancashire. She's a WAAF in the admin office."

"I see," said his father slowly, fighting to keep his incredulity out of his voice. "And you're _engaged?_ This is a bit sudden, isn't it?"

There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. "Well … you know how it is."

"I don't think I do, actually. Forgive me, Andrew, but I was under the impression that you already had a girl here in Hastings."

"Dad …"

"So you and Sam broke up? You never mentioned it. Neither did she. When did this happen?"

"Look, Dad … Sam's a great girl. I'm fond of her, you know that. We had a good time together when I was home, but … well, I'm up here now. It's different. Things happen."

" 'Things happen.' "

"Well … yes."

"Are you trying to say you never actually ended things with her?"

"… not exactly."

"_Andrew_!"

Another uncomfortable silence.

"Look, Dad, it's not like I planned it this way. I didn't mean it to happen like this … but I met Millie and … well …"

"Andrew, Andrew, I _have_ to say it. I expected better of you. Sam's a nice girl, a decent girl … she deserves more consideration than that."

His son's sigh reverberated through the static of the long-distance connection. "I know, Dad. You're right, I'm sorry. Like I said, I didn't mean for this to happen. But it's done."

"What do you mean, 'it's done'?"

"Well, I just spoke to her."

"Sam? You told her about this other girl over the _phone_?" His shock was rapidly giving way to anger. "For God's sake, really!"

"Would a letter have been better? I thought … well, I thought she deserved the chance to tell me off. So I rang her."

"And did she?"

"What?"

"Tell you off?"

"Ummm … no, actually. She didn't."

"Hmmm. Pity."

Andrew sighed again. "Look, Dad, I understand if you don't want to, but I thought … well, if you want to come … to the wedding, I mean. We're getting a special licence. Registry office. I know it's a long trip …" he trailed off, sounding dejected.

For a moment Foyle was tempted to say he wouldn't come, but realised almost immediately that to do so might create an irreparable breach between them. As far as he was concerned there could never be an acceptable excuse for his son's shabby treatment of Sam, but he must have fallen head-over-heels in love with this girl. Such things did happen, after all, especially in wartime. His only son's wedding. How could he not be present?

"I'll come," he said curtly. " 'Course I'll be there. When are you doing it?"

Andrew breathed an audible sigh of relief. "We thought Saturday. The registry office is open until noon."

"_This_ Saturday?"

"Yes."

"For God's sake, Andrew, why the rush?"

"Well …"

"Look, if you want to get engaged, that's one thing, but you should take some time to think about this. You've known her how long?"

"Couple of months."

"A couple of months? And you want to get married in three days? Andrew, really, don't you think you're rushing things? There's no reason -" He broke off abruptly. _Oh, God. What if there is a reason?_

Andrew opened his mouth to tell his father the truth but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. Christ, if his father had been _that_ angry about his two-timing Sam there was no telling what he'd say if he confessed the full story. He remembered only too well the row they'd had when his father had discovered the nature of his relationship with Violet. And as futile as it seemed just now, he wanted very much to retain as much of his father's good opinion as possible. He swallowed hard. "Look," he finally managed, "we just think … it's better this way."

The very long silence at the other end of the line told Andrew that his father had probably understood what he'd been unable to say. Leave it to Dad to put two and two together. "Right," he said slowly. "Well."

Andrew waited, his heart in his throat. _Please, Dad, don't hate me_, he thought miserably.

"I'd best get the early train," Christopher Foyle said softly.

* * *

He replaced the receiver and stared blankly at it for a moment before turning back to the sitting room. He headed automatically for the little table with the decanters before he remembered that he had finished his last bottle of single-malt a fortnight ago. Like most other luxuries, whisky had become both scarce and expensive, too costly for a regular indulgence. A shame. He could really have used a drink just now. Instead he sank into his chair and ran a weary hand across his face. _Andrew, Andrew,_ he thought, sick at heart. _What have you got yourself into?_

* * *

Foyle rang the station next morning from the railway station. He had expected to leave a message for his sergeant but found him already at work, despite the fact that it was not yet seven o'clock. "Something's come up," he told Milner brusquely. "Got to go out of town for a few days … No, nothing wrong. Going to visit Andrew. … Yes, he's fine. Look, I'll call when I get there, let you know where you can reach me. … That's right, Yorkshire."

"What about Sam, sir? I don't think she's come in yet."

He winced slightly. One advantage of this early-morning departure was that it meant he could postpone what was bound to be an awkward encounter with his driver. "Nnnno, didn't call her. Too early. Let her know she doesn't need to pick me up, will you?"

"Of course. Shall I tell her to take a few days off?"

"If you don't need her yourself. What have you got on?"

"Dartmoor, sir. Remember?"

"That's right." Milner had planned to take the train to Devon to interview a convict whose younger brother he had just arrested for burglary. "She can drive you there. Save time."

"Thank you."

"Not at all. Ah, there's my train. Better go."

"Safe journey, sir," Milner said quickly as Foyle rang off.

* * *

"Sam?" he called an hour later when he glimpsed her khaki-clad figure hurrying past his office door. She replied with a hasty "morning!" but didn't break stride, so he rose and followed her down the corridor. He found her in the station kitchen, rummaging through a cardboard box under the sink.

"You all right?" he asked when she straightened, distributor cap in hand. She looked flustered and slightly out of sorts.

"Yes, just late. Overslept." She started to duck past him out the door but he put out a hand to stop her.

"Slow down, there's no hurry. You don't need to pick up Mr Foyle. He called earlier. He's gone out of town. Be gone for the rest of the week."

"Oh!" She stopped abruptly. "Oh. Right." _He's gone up for the wedding_, she realised, her stomach twisting at this unexpected reminder of the thing she was trying so hard not to think about. _Well, of course he would, wouldn't he? _

Expecting a flood of questions, Milner was a bit taken aback by the brevity of her response, as well as by the expression that flitted momentarily across her face. He added, "Yorkshire. Something to do with Andrew. Says he's all right, it's just a visit." He watched her closely as she looked quickly away, a touch of pink rising in her cheeks. She tried to cover by setting down the distributor cap and reaching for the teakettle.

"I see. Just as well, really, seeing as I had a lie-in this morning." She kept her voice as light as possible as she turned the tap to fill the kettle. All things considered, she reflected, she was just as glad she hadn't seen Mr Foyle before he'd left. She knew how badly he was bound to feel about how things had turned out but she didn't think she was up to facing his sympathy quite yet. Luckily no one else at the station knew anything about her relationship with Andrew; she'd been very careful to keep quiet about it. "I suppose I've time for a cup of tea, then. Like one?"

"Yes, thanks," he replied, still studying her from the doorway. "Listen, would you fancy a trip? You'd save me hours on the train if you'd take me to Dartmoor."

She glanced up at him as she set the kettle on the hob. "Of course." _Just the ticket,_ she thought. _Getting away for a day or two might do me a world of good. A distraction._ "How soon do you want to leave?"

"An hour? I've got an arrest report I need to finish up. We can stop by your digs on our way so you can collect your tooth brush."

"Fine." She flashed him a quick smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "That should give me enough time to get the car ready. After my tea, of course."

* * *

It was long past dark when Foyle's taxi deposited him in the village of Church Fenton. Wartime travel delays had made the three-hundred-mile journey long and tedious. Train from Hastings to London, bus from Charing Cross to Kings Cross, another train to York and now a taxi to this unremarkable West Riding village just outside the aerodrome's front gate.

He took a moment to get his bearings after the taxi drove away. It was dark and bitterly cold, far from welcoming, but not silent. In the distance he could hear the roar of aeroplane engines cutting clearly through the frigid air. Much closer were the rumble of voices and the discordant jangle of jazz. Foyle turned up his coat collar and stamped his feet, both against the cold and to ease muscles stiffened by hours of sitting. Dipping a hand into his coat pocket, he plied his torch beam across the snow-covered village green, then up and down the street at the blacked-out houses. At last the light came to rest on a circular sign partway round the square, upon which the silhouette of a Spitfire was surrounded by the words _The Fenton Flyer_. This was the pub Andrew had mentioned on the phone. It also seemed to be the source of the revelry. He picked up his case and crossed the road.

His first impression when he pushed open the door to the public bar was that he had walked into a sea of blue. Every person in the pub, male and female, it seemed, was wearing uniform with the exception of a ginger-haired woman in a dingy cardigan pulling pints behind the bar. Nearly every walk of life in the RAF seemed to be represented – gunners, navigators, ground crew, sergeants, corporals, WAAFs. And pilots, of course. They were seated at tables, leaning against the bar, clustered round the log fire, talking and laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world. From the lounge across the way he could hear a husky female voice trilling, "When you begiiiin … the beguiiiine …" to the accompaniment of a tinny piano and several appreciative wolf whistles. The Fenton Flyer, it seemed, was where the personnel of RAF Church Fenton came to relax and to drink in their off-duty hours.

No one seemed to notice the intrusion of the civilian in the trilby at first. Foyle's eyes scanned the room, searching for the familiar face without success. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure rise from a table in the corner. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with his son.

"Hullo, Dad," said Andrew quietly.


	3. Chapter 3: Far from Home

"Andrew."

They stared at each other silently for a moment as if trying to gauge one another's mood. Around them the buzz of chatter and the tinkle of the piano continued unabated. Then Andrew broke the tension between them by reaching a hand toward his father. "Thanks for coming. It's good to see you."

Foyle immediately set down his case so he could grip his son's hand. "And you," was all he said, but his eyes said much more. However much Andrew worried him, frustrated him and tried his patience, his heart would always rejoice at the sight of his only child.

Always the more demonstrative, Andrew clasped his father's elbow with his free hand, a socially acceptable substitute for the hug that so rarely passed between them. "You look tired. How was your trip?"

"Long," replied Foyle in a dry voice his son recognised. A shadow of a smile flitted across his face and he gestured toward the table behind him.

"Come and sit down. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Figured you wouldn't. I asked Bertha to keep a plate hot for you in the kitchen. Hang on, I'll get it."

The dinner in question turned out to be a rather dried-out portion of what appeared to be steak-and-kidney pie with mashed turnips. "Mutton, not beef," Andrew told him. "You're in sheep country up here." He was interrupted by a particularly loud burst of laughter from the bar. "Sorry about the noise. I'd suggest we try the lounge but with the piano it's just as loud over there."

He let his son do most of the talking as he ate. Reluctant to plunge straightaway into the reason for his journey, he asked about life at Church Fenton instead. Andrew, who seemed equally glad to avoid murky conversational waters, spoke at length about the training schedule, his duties as flight instructor and the merits of the Bristol Beaufighter as a long-range night fighter.

Foyle watched his son's face as he talked. Puffiness under his eyes hinted at too much alcohol and too little sleep while lines around his mouth gave mute testimony to strain. While not as pronounced as they had been just before he'd gone AWL a year ago, the signs of tension were unmistakably present in his voice, in the set of his shoulders and in the quick jerky drags on the cigarette dangling from his fingers. But was his stress caused by the burdens of the war, the father wondered, or by his current muddle?

His meal finished, he pushed his plate away and fingered the knot on his tie, unconsciously straightening it as though arming himself against conflict. _Can't avoid it forever_, he thought, _much as I'd like to_. His son, sensing what was coming, fell silent and threw back a healthy swallow of whisky with a practised gesture. Foyle cleared his throat. "So when am I going to meet her?"

His words hung in the air for a long moment. "Tomorrow," Andrew replied softly, avoiding his father's eye as he stubbed out his fag in the ashtray. "She's on duty tonight." After another pause he stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. "Look, Dad, you're tired and I'm due back soon. Why don't you let me show you where you're staying?" He reached for his leather flying jacket and cap.

Foyle rose too, hat in hand. "I'm not upstairs?" He had assumed he'd be lodging in the pub since the village seemed too small to boast a hotel.

His son shook his head. "Booked you into a guest house. Bit further from the base, but it's quieter. I thought you'd prefer it." He reached for his father's case.

They made their way by torchlight around the square and up a dark lane, their breath freezing in clouds in the February chill. All was quiet once they'd left the pub well behind. "Why don't you tell me about her?" Foyle asked gently. Their feet crunched in the hard-packed snow.

"Not much to tell. I met her here at the base. She's a WAAF, been here six months. Nice girl."

"Do you love her?" He asked the question hesitantly, remembering the explosion of anger it had triggered once before. But Andrew only sighed.

"I don't know, Dad. I mean … I'm fond of her, sure. She's very pretty, fun to be with. A great one for a laugh, Millie. I always feel better when I'm with her. But love … how are you meant to know when you're in love?"

Foyle frowned, glad his son couldn't read his expression in the darkness. "But you're going to marry her."

"Yes."

"Because she's pregnant."

Andrew winced. Trust his father not to employ a more polite euphemism for Millie's condition. "Yes. And you can skip the lecture, if you don't mind."

"Bit late for that, I'd say." He heard a faint snort in the darkness. "Andrew, please. I haven't come all this way to take you to task. I'd like to help, if I can. What about her parents?"

"Her father's dead. Mother got remarried to a farmer in Lancashire. Millie doesn't like him much. Doesn't seem very close to her mother either."

"Are they coming to the wedding?"

"Doesn't look like it." He stopped and flashed his torch at the words _Holly House_ painted neatly on the gate of one of the blacked-out houses. "This is it, Dad. We'll talk more tomorrow, all right?"

* * *

As she had hoped, Sam found that the long drive to the West Country provided a welcome distraction from her own troubles. After a quick stop at her digs for an overnight case and to tell her landlady she'd be away, she and Milner got underway by half-past nine. She was less talkative than normal, the sergeant noted, but drove with her usual skill. The weather was cold but sunny, and as there was no snow or ice on the roads to impede their progress they reached Devon by mid-afternoon.

Sam had never before been to Dartmoor and she was struck by the sheer physical beauty of the rocky, wild landscape. She leaned back on her elbows on the Wolseley's bonnet, gazing out at the undulating carpet of green stretching for miles in every direction, after Milner had entered the forbidding Victorian prison. _I wonder if the Yorkshire moors are as lovely as this_, she mused. _I should write to Andrew and ask_ …

She caught her breath, remembering that there would be no letters from Yorkshire in future. _Blast!_ she thought fiercely, blinking back tears. _I'm better off without him anyway. Who needs a boyfriend who never calls? Or writes? And who is posted three hundred miles away?_

_And it was hardly a bed of roses even when he was around, _she reminded herself, pulling her coat tighter round her body against a chilly gust of wind off the moor. It was easy to forget during Andrew's long absences how difficult he could be sometimes_. _She'd witnessed his mercurial temperament even before they'd started going out. What about that fight he'd started at the Flamingo? True, she'd been in a bit of a spot with that Irish fellow but there had been no call for Andrew to punch him like that. And what about the time she'd tried to cheer him up by taking him to tea at the Promenade and he'd snarled at her and stalked off?

After she became his girl, Sam had learned that those were just tiny glimpses of Andrew's darker side. His moodiness and melancholy had grown steadily worse until they'd culminated in that awful evening when he'd gone AWL from his base and shown up at her door. She'd felt completely out of her depth – he was babbling incoherently, utterly overwhelmed with battle fatigue and she hadn't a clue how to help him. In the end all she could do was cradle him against her as he'd sobbed like a child on her shoulder. When the storm had passed she'd sneaked him upstairs to her room and tucked him into own her bed, shushing his feeble protests. She'd spent an uneasy night curled up under a blanket in a chair, listening to Andrew thrash round the bed fighting the demons that stalked his sleep and terrified that her landlady would hear him and evict her. _And he never even thanked me properly_, she thought bitterly.

Afterward Sam had done her best not to think about that night – not only because of his ugly breakdown but also because of something which had spilled out in that first tormented rush of words. "Sometimes I don't even care if I ever see you again … it's as if you don't exist for me, as if we never met," he'd blurted, not noticing how the words had pierced her to the core. At the time she'd tried to dismiss them on account of his overwrought state; now, however, she considered them in a new light. Perhaps she never _had_ existed for him – or at least not as a real, proper girlfriend. Oh, they'd kissed, of course; they'd held hands and danced and embraced, but he'd never tried to exceed the boundaries of respectable conduct with her as he'd obviously done with other girls. From the very beginning, she realised, the relationship had had much more to do with consolation than with passion. She hadn't minded, sensing she how much he needed the solace she gave him, but the truth was that she'd spent so much time encouraging and comforting him that she'd felt less like a girlfriend at times than a sister.

_A sister. Or even … a mother?_ The thought startled her; she heard herself murmur the word aloud. She tried to dismiss it as nonsense but found she couldn't. _After all, his mother died a long time ago_. _No brothers or sisters, just his father, and it isn't always easy for him to talk to Mr Foyle, is it?_ She knew Andrew found it difficult sometimes to live up to his father's principles, something with which she could empathise because she, too, struggled under the weight of parental expectations. _Maybe that's what he really saw in me,_ she thought. _Not someone to be romantic about, but someone who would listen. _

The thought was another blow to her battered self-esteem. Andrew Foyle had been her first real boyfriend, after all, and she cared about him. Sam wanted to find love and romance as much as any other girl. Why had things turned out this way_? Was it me? Is there something the matter with me?_ she wondered miserably, biting her lip. _Am I so unattractive?_

Her unhappy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Milner's slightly uneven step on the paved court. The sergeant noticed her expression at once but chose not to comment upon it. Daylight was waning, and as they wanted to avoid driving on strange roads in the blackout they headed straight for Plymouth in search of lodgings. He'd talk to her later, he vowed, see if he could find out what was troubling her.


	4. Chapter 4: Love and Doubt

Arms folded behind his head, Foyle leant back against the downy pillows and stared up at the shadows created on the ceiling by the runway lights of the aerodrome across the moor.

By rights, he knew, he should be long asleep by now. Mrs Holly had made him welcome, his room was tolerably warm and the bed comfortable. Moreover, he was tired from the journey and he'd slept poorly the night before. But he found it difficult to yield to sleep while his mind kept replaying the evening's conversation.

Foremost in his thoughts was Andrew's uncertain reply when he'd asked him about his feelings toward the young lady in question. He was "fond" of Millie, he'd said. Foyle had refrained from pointing out that not twenty-four hours ago he'd used the same word to describe his feelings for Sam. He had concluded during those long hours on the train that it was pointless to berate his son further about Sam. What was done was done, after all, and he'd made his feelings clear the night before. Bringing the subject up again would only alienate the lad at a time when, from the look of things, Andrew badly needed his support.

That his son was on the brink of marriage with a woman he did not love troubled Foyle deeply. _How are you meant to know when you're in love? _Andrew had asked_. You just know,_ he had wanted to reply. _If it's the real thing, son, you just know. _His feelings for Rosalind had been so intense, so visceral that they had changed everything for him, permanently shaping his life not only while they were together but long after she was gone as well. He couldn't remember a time when he'd had doubts about his feelings for her, and he was certain that loving her had made him a better person.

Somehow he hadn't been able to find the words to express all this to Andrew. _Oh, Andrew._ His heart was heavy when he thought of his son._ If he marries this girl feeling as he does it will be a disaster for them both_. He'd seen enough marriages go sour in his time feel grimly confident of this. _But how can I say that to him? If he's responsible for her pregnancy, what else can he do? _

* * *

"What's the matter, Sam?"

Milner was watching her toying with her portion of Woolton pie. While the wartime concoction of potatoes, onions, carrots and cauliflower could hardly be called appetising, he was sure that her disconsolate expression couldn't be blamed entirely on their dinner. He decided his moment had come.

She looked up from her plate. "What? Oh, nothing much."

He raised his eyebrows. "Sam, you've hardly touched your food."

"I'm not sure it's worth eating," she replied, gesturing at the unappealing mass with her fork.

"True, but that's never stopped you before," he countered. The mild jibe brought a reluctant smile to her face. He added gently, "Look, it's obvious you're preoccupied with something. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I wondered if it might help to talk."

_Maybe he's right,_ Sam reflected. She certainly wasn't doing herself any good brooding over it; perhaps a male perspective would help. She still wanted to keep Andrew's identity a secret, especially since she and Milner both worked for his father, but if she could avoid mentioning his name … She set down the fork with a sigh, searching for the right words. "It's just … well, I had a rather upsetting phone call last night."

"Upsetting?" His eyes widened with concern. "It wasn't your father again, was it, wanting to take you home?"

"No, not that."

"Boyfriend trouble?" he guessed. His tone was so gentle and sympathetic that she found it easy to nod. "I see. Did you break up?"

"I'm afraid so. The thing is … there's someone else. Another girl."

"Oh. I'm sorry." The kindness in his voice was like a balm, soothing her battered emotions. "That's rough. Had you been together long?"

She paused to tally it up. "Sixteen months."

Milner nodded, rather surprised. He'd suspected that there was a young man in Sam's life but he'd had no idea that she had been seeing the same chap for so long.

"I suppose I should have been expecting it, really," she continued, pushing her plate away. "He's been posted away from Sussex for a year now. He used to come home pretty regularly at weekends, but it got to be less and less often. I've hardly heard anything from him in the past few months. I'd even thought of ending it myself, but … " she trailed off, reaching for her glass of cider.

"But?"

She flushed slightly. "Well, it hardly seemed the right thing to do. Unpatriotic, you know. He's a - " she broke off, not wanting to give him enough clues to work out Andrew's identity - "well, he's got quite a dangerous job, you see … puts him under a lot of pressure. Isn't his girl back home supposed remain true? To wait for him with 'patience and steadfastness', as Dad likes to say in his sermons, while he's fighting for King and country? Not throw him over because he hasn't called or written in a month?"

Milner stiffened but did his best to keep his face impassive. _And not walk out on him because he's been maimed, either, _he thought bitterly_._ _God, why couldn't Jane have shown me that kind of loyalty? _He took a sip of lager while he tried to compose himself. _This is about Sam,_ he reminded himself firmly, _not about me. _

Fortunately she was too deep in her own story to notice his expression. "And now … I feel like such a _fool, _Milner! Did you know I've turned down three invitations to the Palais this month? And it turns out the whole time he's had another girl!"

"Being loyal doesn't make you a fool, Sam. You're not the one at fault here. The question is, are you interested in stepping out with anyone else? How do you feel about him?"

"Other than wanting to throw him out a window, you mean?"

His lips twitched. "Well, yes. Other than that."

She shook her head. "I care about him, of course I do, but - we're very different, you see. I'm not sure we would ever have started seeing each other if it hadn't been for the war. We kept getting thrown together by circumstances and things sort of started between us almost by accident."

He considered this. "That doesn't make the relationship any less meaningful."

"No, but with the way things have turned out ... it makes me wonder if I wasn't more a … a _convenience_ to him than anything else. I mean, he obviously needed someone to talk to, and I suppose I'm a good listener. But now I'm wondering if that's all I meant to him."

"Oh, Sam, I'm sure that's not the case."

"I'm not so sure. After all, it's pretty clear now he didn't feel much for me if he can treat me this way. And he can be … difficult. Sometimes he was lovely and sweet and everything was fine, but at other times … he's very moody. The truth is I never knew quite where I stood with him. Well, I guess I know now!"

"Because he met someone else, you mean? That doesn't mean he never cared for you. Remember, he's in a dangerous posting and he's coping with a lot of pressure, like you said. He's a long way from home, he's lonely ... maybe he met this girl and got to know her and has only just realised he's fallen for her without really meaning to. It doesn't make it right, of course, but these things do happen."

Sam hesitated, frowning. She hadn't intended to tell him the truly sordid bit but she wanted to make him understand that this new romantic involvement was neither recent nor superficial. "It's not quite like that," she said. "It's been going on for some time. They're getting _married_." She took a grim satisfaction in the way his eyes widened.

"Married?"

"Yes. And straightaway. Tomorrow, probably." His mouth fell slightly open and she knew he'd come to the same inescapable conclusion she had.

"Ah. I see," he said slowly. "That does put things in rather a different light, doesn't it? No wonder you feel betrayed. I'm sorry, Sam."

She shrugged and managed a wan smile. Now that she'd confessed the whole painful story and basked in his sympathy, she was seized by a perverse need to make light of things. "It's all right. I'll survive." She swallowed the last of her cider and gazed thoughtfully at the dregs in the bottom of the glass. "It's just my turn, I expect. I mean, everyone gets thrown over sooner or later, don't they?"

Milner couldn't help it; he flinched. Too late she realised what she'd said. "Oh, Lord, Milner, I'm_ sorry_," she exclaimed, looking stricken. "That was a horrible thing to say."

"It's all right, Sam," he said, striving to keep his tone light.

"No, no, it's _not_. It was beastly of me. I just wasn't thinking … forgive me." Her face was so contrite that he summoned a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry about it, really. You're quite right; everyone _does_ go through it at some point. I'd had my heart broken several times by the time I was your age."

She looked at him fondly. How sweet he was to make light of her gaffe. And how typical of him. _He's such a dream_, she thought_. So kind and gentle and easy to talk to. Not to mention tall and nice-looking with those lovely warm eyes_. Not for the first time, Sam wondered what on earth was the matter with Jane Milner. Blessed with this wonderful husband who obviously adores her and she bolts just because he lost a leg. The woman ought to have her head examined.


	5. Chapter 5: The Bride

Next morning after breakfast Foyle went for a stroll round Church Fenton. There was little enough to see: a few score houses, several assorted shops, a school, two pubs, a village hall, a venerable stone church called St. Mary the Virgin and, for nonconformist residents, a small brick Methodist chapel. A greengrocer in a white apron swept the pavement in front of his shop; half-a-dozen women carrying baskets queued up outside the butcher's; several tiny children romped in the snowy square next to the Great War memorial, watched by a grandmotherly-looking woman in a headscarf. It looked like a thousand other English villages, tranquil and self-contained, to all outward appearances nearly untouched by the war.

But the illusion of peace, so convincing to the eyes, did not extend to the ears. The faint rumble of aeroplane engines made an ever-present backdrop of sound. Squinting to the northeast, Foyle could make out planes silhouetted against the pale winter sky. Was his son in one of them, he wondered, instructing some student pilot in fighter tactics?

At eleven o'clock he made his way to The Fenton Flyer. He wasn't due to meet Andrew and his fiancée for lunch until noon, but he was glad enough to get out of the cold while he waited. He settled himself at a table in the empty lounge, ordered a pot of tea and unfolded his newspaper.

Gradually the room began to fill as customers drifted in. First came a pair of matrons carrying their shopping followed by four or five young men wearing RAF mechanics' coveralls. A few minutes later several farmers in plaid jackets entered, red-faced from the cold, chatting amiably in broad Yorkshire accents. Foyle paid particular attention to the arrival of trio of WAAFs, wondering if one of them might be Millie. Two wore sergeant's stripes, he observed, while the third was a corporal. All three were attractive and presentable young women, their uniforms neatly pressed, their hair pinned up smoothly, their manners decorous. They settled into a booth, talking quietly. He watched them thoughtfully for a time before turning back to his paper.

Some time later a girlish laugh from the door made him look up again. A fair-haired young woman had come in and was greeting the ground-crew lads like long-lost cousins. She was clearly a favourite of theirs, for within seconds one had taken her coat, a second had vacated his stool and a third was lighting her a cigarette. _No wonder_, Foyle thought as she perched herself in their midst, for the removal of the coat had revealed a lush figure set off by an eye-popping scarlet frock.

He turned a page of his paper, finding it harder to concentrate now as the noise level had increased considerably since the arrival of the red-clad siren. He glanced at his watch, frowning slightly. Ten past noon. Well, it was just like Andrew to be late, wasn't it? Even two years in uniform, it seemed, had failed to teach the lad punctuality.

It was twenty past when he heard the faint puttering of a motorbike outside. Moments later the door banged open and his son entered. He was alone. He paused just inside the door, nodding briefly to his father, but his eyes were sweeping the room.

As Foyle watched, wondering why he was alone, Andrew took a few steps toward the group at the bar, hand outstretched. He saw the face of the girl in red light up, watched her slide off her stool and come to join him, wobbling slightly on high-heeled shoes. Andrew took her hand and guided her across the room to meet his incredulous father.

"Sorry I'm late, Dad, my lesson ran over. This is Millie. Millie, my father."

* * *

Sam was waiting for him in a small antechamber just off the prison lobby. "Here you are. Any luck?" she asked, turning from the window with its sweeping view across Dartmoor.

"Nope. He's not talking," Milner replied, looking discouraged.

"Nothing at all? That's too bad."

Milner had made the journey to Dartmoor Prison to interview one Clive Prout, whose fifteen-year-old brother Billy he'd just arrested for housebreaking. It seemed to be a case of the younger brother following in his elder's footsteps, for Clive was currently serving time for the same crime. He was a nasty piece of work, as he'd proved six months after his incarceration by his vicious assault upon another Borstal inmate with a homemade knife. That incident had earned him both an extended sentence and a transfer to Dartmoor, an institution notorious for its harsh regime.

Young Billy Prout had been caught stealing plate from a country house and a search of his mother's cottage revealed a sizeable cache of valuables hidden under the kitchen floorboards. Milner was convinced that the boy was working under coercion, perhaps by a gang, but the frightened lad had refused to name any accomplices. A review of the elder Prout's case notes told him that Sergeant Devlin, the arresting officer, had also suspected gang links but had been unable to find proof. Milner was hopeful that he might be able to persuade Clive to expose the rest of the ring in order to help his younger brother. "I wasn't expecting full cooperation, of course, but I was hoping I might get somewhere with him," he told Sam. "Not much reason for him to keep his mouth shut while he's locked away in here. And if I can't prove the boy was being intimidated it's going to go pretty badly for him."

"You were gone so long I was sure you must be getting something out of him."

"Sorry about that. I worked him over pretty hard, but no joy." Milner donned his hat and coat and held the door open for her.

"So where to now? Back to Sussex?"

"No, not just yet. I think I'd like to have another go tomorrow. Give him a chance to think about Billy spending five or ten years in a place like this. Probably a waste of time, I know, but the Governor's approved it. I called the station and the duty sergeant says it's been quiet, so no need to rush back. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not. What shall we do until then?"

He shrugged, matching his longer stride to hers as they crossed the stone-flagged court to the car. "Don't know. Shall we see what diversions Plymouth has to offer?"

She flashed him a smile across the Wolseley's roof. "We can go anywhere you like as long as you buy me lunch."

* * *

It was a lucky thing, Foyle thought, that a career in police work had taught him to veil his thoughts. He'd managed to murmur a greeting while shaking her hand, although he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't stumbled over her name. _This_ was Millie? The girl who'd been flirting and giggling with the mechanics for the past quarter-hour? _Oh, Christ_.

Observational skills were something else he'd picked up on the job, and he put those to use while Andrew held out a chair for his bride and pulled another one over from an empty table for himself. She was certainly pretty, as Andrew had said, and he knew enough about his son's preferences in the area of female charms to realise that this girl was exactly to Andrew's taste. Her eyes were cornflower blue and her platinum-blonde hair fell past her shoulders in a riot of pin curls. She was very petite, not much more than five feet tall, so that even in those ridiculous heels Andrew towered over her. And her figure was every bit as spectacular as he had observed from across the room – generously curved hips and a remarkably full bosom emphasised by a tiny waist. It was no wonder, he thought, that Andrew had fallen for her.

Showy as her looks were, though, he decided that she could not be called a classic beauty. The blue eyes were set too close together in her broad, heavily rouged face, and the bleached-out hue of her hair hinted strongly at peroxide. Her lips and fingernails were painted a garish shade of crimson which exactly matched the figure-hugging dress. With increasing unease he made note of the little squeeze she gave his hand just before releasing it and of the coquettish way she adjusted her skirt to show off the sheen of silk stockings on her crossed legs. Make no mistake. This was a young lady who had learnt how to make the most of her physical charms in order to attract male attention.

Once seated at the small table there was an awkward silence. Andrew, his father noticed, looked distinctly nervous. "Shall I get us some food?" he asked, looking over at the small board where the day's menu was chalked. "Ploughman's lunch all right?" When the other two nodded he rose. "And get me a bitter, Andy, there's a love," Millie called after him. Foyle tried not to wince at the nickname. _Why is she calling him that? _he wondered irrelevantly._ He hates being called 'Andy'. Has done since he was six._

Millie tossed back her blonde mane, making her dangling earrings jangle, and turned her attention to Foyle. "Well, _you're_ a nice-looking old thing, aren't you?" she said after a moment, cocking her head and smiling artfully as she gazed at him. "Easy to see where Andy gets his looks."

Foyle wondered how on earth he was meant to respond to this. "Rrrright," he managed dryly, eyebrows raised. The sarcasm in his tone escaped her and she giggled coyly. _Better_ _head this nonsense off straightaway, _he thought, _before Andrew hears_. He cleared his throat_._ "Well. Why don't you tell me about yourself, Miss Sloan?" he asked gently. "You're from Lancashire, is that right?"

Her replies were brief and disjointed, punctuated with more coquettish laughter. As he'd hoped, asking her to talk about herself served to distract her from her crude attempts at flirtation, but piecing her life story together took some skill. She'd grown up in Blackburn, she said, until her father had been killed in a mill accident three years before. Afterward her mother had taken her and her older brother back to her home village where she'd swiftly remarried. The brother had been called up two years ago but Millie, thoroughly bored with country life, had stayed on the farm working as a barmaid in her local until she was old enough to join up herself.

_She's younger than I might have expected,_ Foyle reflected, _probably no more than twenty_. He had found it difficult to guess her age underneath the over-applied cosmetics. "And the WAAF? You enjoy your work here?"

She tossed her blonde curls again, wrinkling her nose with distaste. "_Dead_ boring. They tried to make me be a plotter but I hated it. Awful slog, that – up all night, nobody but a bunch of whinging girls about, all those bloody little machines blinking away ... I just couldn't get the hang of it. Next I was posted to the motor pool at Mildenhall, ferrying the lads out to the planes and all that. Jolly fun, that was, 'til I smashed up a lorry!" She giggled at the memory, seemingly unconcerned about the damage. "So they sent me up here last summer and put me in the admin office messing about with transfers and leaves. I'm dead hopeless with paperwork but it's jolly fun having the lads pop round all the time, signing them in and out, giving them passes. They're lovely. Especially my Andy, of course." She favoured him with a meaningful smile, resting a possessive hand on his arm. "'Course I 'spect I'll be out of it soon enough, won't I, after we're married!"


	6. Chapter 6: A Difficult Conversation

Foyle was relieved when Millie excused herself at the end of lunch. "I'm on duty at two," she explained as Andrew helped her with her coat. "Must change! It's been jolly fun meeting you. Don't expect I'll see you again 'til the wedding tomorrow!" She emitted a gleeful little squeal at the thought. The three WAAFs in the booth, Foyle noticed, all frowned disapprovingly in her direction.

"Are you on as well?" his father murmured as Andrew donned his leather flying jacket, obviously intending to escort his fiancée back to the base.

"Not until five. We're doing night training just now."

"Right. Come back then, will you, after you've seen her back? We can talk a bit more." Andrew nodded, his face impassive, as Millie slipped a hand into the crook of his arm and gave her future father-in-law a final wave and a smile.

* * *

_Where to begin?_ Foyle wondered bleakly. What could he possibly say to his son?

Even in the best of circumstances the situation would have been delicate, but these particular circumstances, he was convinced, were highly suspect. It wasn't merely that the girl dressed like a tart and flirted shamelessly with every man in sight, as distressing a quality as that might be in a prospective wife. Nor was it the financial and social advantages she stood to gain as Andrew's wife; Millie's humble background wouldn't have troubled him if he'd believed the pair loved each other. It wasn't even the fact that she'd shown no hint of embarrassment or disgrace over the hasty wedding; after all, whirlwind nuptials were not uncommon in wartime. But, he reminded himself, such marriages were usually motivated by love, not by an untimely pregnancy.

No, it was Millie's remark about leaving the WAAF that had given her away. After all, it wasn't possible for her simply to quit the service; having joined up, she was committed for the duration. In fact, the shortage of military personnel had grown so acute that only two months ago a new National Service Act had called up all women between ages twenty and thirty. Conscription would have been unavoidable if she hadn't been in uniform already. And while marriage was no barrier to female service, he knew, pregnant women and mothers of young children were exempted.

His intuition was shouting the warning in neon letters: _this girl was trapping his son into marriage._ Whether she'd got pregnant deliberately or was merely taking advantage of an accident mattered little. The question was: how was he going to make Andrew see the truth?

* * *

He was waiting outside the pub when Andrew reappeared, on foot this time, skirting the icy patches on the pavement with hands jammed in his pockets. When he reached his father Foyle gestured wordlessly with his head and set off across the square in the direction of the guest house. Wordlessly the younger man fell in step beside him.

They walked through the village side-by-side, not speaking. In the pale winter light the lines on Andrew's face seemed deeper, more pronounced. Foyle chewed his lip, searching for the right words.

"Andrew … I want to help. I'm proud of you for wanting to take responsibility for the situation, I really am, but it can't have escaped you that I have … misgivings. There are things I'd like to ask you, son, but I don't want to pry."

When there was no response, he chanced a sideways glance and saw reflected in his son's features something he hadn't seen there in a very long time: shame. The truth was that Andrew had been in an agony of mortification throughout the lunch, unexpectedly seeing his fiancée through his father's eyes. His brief relationship with Millie had been an escape of thoughtless pleasure, a devil-may-care frolic with a dazzlingly pretty girl who could lift his spirits and make him forget about the killing skies he himself had escaped but that he was preparing his students to face. Today, quite suddenly, she had seemed vapid and brassy, very different to the sweet, kittenish girl with whom he'd danced and flirted at the Flyer. Reading his father's judgement in his eyes, he'd felt his insides squirm with embarrassment, and his chagrin had increased at the thought of what his mother would have said if she'd been there to meet Millie. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Foyle added, in the gentlest tone he could muster.

Andrew nodded, a quick, stiff jerk. He said nothing, though, until his father pushed open the wrought-iron gate to Holly House. "What about your landlady?"

"She's out afternoons, she said. Red Cross volunteer." Foyle unlocked the door and ushered his son inside.

He settled himself in a chair in the lounge, watching Andrew pace the carpet and wishing they were having this conversation in the sitting room at home, after dinner with the lamps turned low and a whisky or two to help the boy relax. God knew he looked as taut as a bowstring. He was fingering a waistcoat button, trying to think where to begin, when Andrew spoke huskily. "What do you want to know?"

He took a deep breath and let it out silently. "How long have you been seeing her?"

"About six weeks."

"And ... how many times have you …" he trailed off, but Andrew didn't need him to finish the sentence.

"Twice."

"You … used protection?"

Andrew turned away, facing the window. "Not the first time, no. We weren't planning … I mean, it just sort of happened."

Foyle was careful to keep his tone free of recrimination. "How long ago was that?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Only three weeks? And the doctor says she's pregnant?"

"Doctor?" He shrugged. "I suppose so."

His father straightened abruptly. "You've spoken to the doctor, haven't you?"

"No."

"Well, she has _seen_ one, hasn't she?"

"Don't know, she never said. And I didn't think to ask. Too shocked." His shoulders shrugged hopelessly. "Why? Is it so important? I mean, women can tell, can't they, when they're … "

Foyle closed his eyes for a moment as he absorbed the impact of these words. _How is it possible_, he wondered, _for such a bright lad to be so ignorant?_ Then he reflected that was not this sort of knowledge one acquired in Oxford tutorials. His own understanding of such things had been initially gleaned from his marriage, of course, and he'd picked up quite a bit more over the years through his work as a detective. Why had he never thought to share any of those facts with his son? Certainly he found it awkward to speak of such matters, but he'd obviously done Andrew a grave disservice with his reticence. _Time to put embarrassment aside and speak frankly_, he decided, clearing his throat and plunging ahead. "I … don't think so, Andrew. Not that quickly."

His son turned toward him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Sit down," his father said, drawing in another deep breath. A bit haltingly he explained the maths of the female reproductive cycle: so many weeks to a suspicion, so many more to a certainty. Andrew listened, incredulity dawning on his face.

"So you're saying … she might not really be …"

"Possibly not. If it's only been three weeks it's too soon to tell. That's why it's important that she see a doctor. Is there one here? At the base? In the village?"

Andrew shook his head. "There's an infirmary on base but I don't know if she'd have gone there … she'd get in trouble, you know. And if there's a doctor in the village, he'd be bound to know she's a WAAF. The place is so small, she'd be recognised."

That was true, Foyle reflected; a girl with Millie's looks would certainly be noticed and remembered. "So if she saw anyone, it was probably in York."

Andrew nodded. "Right." He sat very still for a moment, thinking. Then he slumped forward and pressed his forehead with both hands. "God, what a mess, Dad. What should I do?"

"You need to discuss it with her. Immediately." Foyle replied.

"She's not going to like that."

"Probably not, but you have the right to ask."

"Then what?"

"Well, if she's already been to a doctor, you need to speak to him. If she hasn't, you need to take her to see someone straight away. In either case you need to confirm that she's actually pregnant … and you need to find out exactly how far along she is." He bit his lip, knowing he was straying into dangerous territory.

Andrew raised his face. "What do you mean?"

"If she's two or three months gone, Andrew, then … it can't be yours."

His son looked outraged. "Dad, for God's sake! She's only nineteen!"

"And?"

"Millie's not like that! She was … I mean, it was her first time!"

"I see. And you know this because …"

"Because she _said_ so. It … it _hurt_ her, she said! Bloody hell, Dad, I can't _believe_ you're suggesting … " He'd gone red in the face, whether from embarrassment or fury his father wasn't sure.

His reply was calm and deliberate, in contrast to his son's strident tones. "I'm only saying you need to be sure, Andrew. I don't want to see you make a mistake you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Andrew flung himself out of his chair, shaking. He was halfway to the door when he stopped, fists clenched in his trouser pockets. Foyle waited, heart pounding, wondering if he'd torn a permanent rift between them.

When he finally spoke, he kept his back turned against his father and his voice was choked. "The wedding's tomorrow morning. There isn't time … I mean, it's nearly the weekend. There won't be any surgeries open. For God's sake, when am I supposed to … "

"Put it off. Don't do anything until you're sure. A few days won't make any difference. The Registry Office will still be there next week."

Andrew stood still for a long moment. Foyle could see his shoulders heaving silently as he fought for control. As much as he wanted offer comfort, he knew he could not, realising how much his son must hate him just now for raising these doubts in his mind. He wished that he hadn't had to do it, but he knew he'd never have forgiven himself if he'd remained silent.

Finally his son reached for his jacket and cap and jerked the door open without another word. The slam echoed hollowly through the quiet house.


	7. Chapter 7: A Day in Plymouth

Milner let his prosthetic leg fall to the floor with a sigh. The fresh air and exercise had tired him out so he'd decided to make an early night of it. He settled himself in bed, thinking back over the day with satisfaction.

It really had been delightful, he thought. He hadn't felt so carefree and light-hearted for a very, very long time – probably not since before the war. The prospect of a day free from the usual cares and responsibilities had put him in something of a holiday mood, and he'd done his best to show Sam a bit of fun as well. Quite a girl, that Sam. He had expected her dejection of the previous evening to linger for a time, but she'd come down to breakfast that morning with her chin tilted up at an angle that hinted at some inner resolve. In the two years he'd known her, Milner had become quite adept at reading her moods. _Plucky little thing,_ he'd thought admiringly. _I have to hand it to her; it was a nasty blow, but she's determined not to let it get her down._ Remembering how often she'd tried to cheer him from his own melancholy moods, he had resolved to do his best to take her mind off her troubles.

When they got back from Dartmoor they'd parked the car near their modest lodgings and strolled off toward the Promenade, a broad street lined with grand hotels facing Plymouth Sound. They could see scattered evidence of bomb damage - the pleasure pier had been destroyed, as had a tea pavilion - but most of the area seemed intact. Up on the Hoe, a broad park-like area that commanded a splendid view of the harbour, they'd sat on a bench in the weak winter sunshine and picnicked happily on fish and chips eaten out of paper cones.

Afterwards they'd wandered contentedly about, past the Bowling Green, the Plymouth Naval Memorial, the Mayflower Steps, the Armada Memorial, the statue of Sir Francis Drake and other historic monuments. There were few other sightseers other than an assortment of sailors – British Navy, merchant marine, Canadian Navy and even a handful of Americans. Sam had coaxed a grizzled Home Guard sentry into letting them ascend Smeaton's Tower, the towering lighthouse that dominated the Hoe. The 93 steps to the top had left them panting, but they proved well worth the climb. The vista was stunning – the harbour, the Royal Citadel, the dockyards, the RAAF base at Mount Batten across the Sound and to the northwest the graceful twin arches of Saltash Bridge stretching away to Cornwall.

The view of the nearby city centre, however, was more sobering – an enormous heap of blackened rubble, crushed beyond recognition by the Luftwaffe. Sam caught her breath. "I hadn't realised it had been quite this bad here," Milner had murmured, staring down at the gutted shells that had once been buildings.

"Nor had I. We've had nothing like this in Hastings, thank God. Why so much damage here, do you suppose?"

"Plymouth's a major naval port, Sam. Natural target for Jerry." Glancing over at her solemn face, he'd given her shoulder a comforting pat. _This won't do, _he thought, _I'm meant to be cheering her up!_ "Seen enough? We should go down now. And slower, if you don't mind – I've only got one good leg, you know!" She'd flashed him one of her lightning smiles as she turned toward the spiral stair.

Next they'd spent a contented hour or two exploring the Barbican, a maze of narrow streets and alleys lined with centuries-old half-timbered buildings. Milner, who enjoyed Graham Greene, splurged on a second-hand copy of _England Made Me_ while Sam was thrilled to find a quaint little shop that stocked rose water, a scarce commodity. Pleased with their purchases, they'd finally emerged onto a high street called the Royal Parade. Here, as the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across their path, they found themselves surrounded by the devastation they had observed from the lighthouse.

They picked their way carefully past heaps of charred rubble that had once been shops, offices and terraced houses. Much of the damage, Milner noted, had been caused by incendiary fire rather than by explosives. Neither spoke until they reached the burnt-out, roofless shell of a church. A stone pillar at the edge of the churchyard identified it at St. Andrews, circa 1264. A wooden board bearing a single scrawled word leaned across the doorway. "_Resurgam_," Sam had whispered. " 'I shall rise again'. Oh, Milner, do you think it will?"

"Someday, I expect," he'd murmured. "When this is all over." After a moment they'd moved on, his hand on her back gently guiding her away from the destruction.

In time they'd turned a corner and found a relatively undamaged street. "Look, Milner, a cinema!" said Sam, turning eagerly to him. "And they're showing _The Philadelphia Story_! I've never seen it, have you?"

He would have found it impossible to refuse her coaxing smile even if he hadn't been in such a good mood, so they watched the picture, a witty American comedy about the tangled marital arrangements of a lady millionaire. Milner couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the cinema; he and Jane had once gone regularly, but since her departure he'd had little inclination to go alone. He enjoyed the film immensely, as did his companion. "Oh, that was marvellous!" she beamed as the last strains of "God Save the King" died away.

"Yes," he agreed, smiling back. "It was. Hungry?"

"Of course! Famished. And you?"

"I'm a bit peckish myself. Shall we see if we can find some dinner?"

"Rather!"

"I'm sure we can find a restaurant that's serving Woolton pie," he'd teased.

They'd dined on ham and macaroni cheese, a vast improvement on Woolton pie, to the melody of "A Foggy Day In London Town" playing on an invisible gramophone. The carefree sense of camaraderie lasted throughout the meal. Afterward they made their way back to the hotel through the blackout, his pocket torch lighting the way. "Thank you, Milner," she said softly. "It's been such a lovely day, every bit of it. I promised myself when I woke up this morning that I wouldn't mope about - one day of that was quite enough. But I really wasn't sure I could stick to it. You made it easy, though. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much."

"Quite all right," he replied easily, but the niggling worry he'd been suppressing all day finally forced itself to the surface of his thoughts. _Best tell her_, he thought. "There's something I ought to tell you, though. I'm afraid I have a confession to make."

"A confession?"

"Yes. I hope you won't be too angry with me. The thing is … I know about you and Andrew Foyle."

She halted with a gasp and stared up at him in the faint light. "You _know _… how on earth did you … did Mr Foyle tell you?"

"No, no."

"Then how …"

"Now, Sam, I'm a better detective than that, you know," he said lightly. "All it took was a little brain power, a bit of deductive reasoning … and seeing the two of you holding hands outside the Ritz one evening."

"Oh," she said quietly. "Oh, I see. When was this?" She looked disconcerted.

"Last summer."

"You never mentioned it."

"No. I figured if you'd wanted me to know you'd have told me yourself. I can understand why you'd want to keep it quiet round the station."

"You haven't told anyone, have you?" she asked anxiously.

"Of course not! Not a soul. Look, I ought to have mentioned it last night, I know, but you were upset enough and I didn't want to make things worse. Am I forgiven?" He cocked his head pleadingly.

After the briefest of pauses, she nodded. "Yes, all right." She started walking again and he fell into step beside her.

"Well, that's a relief," he said, pleased she'd taken it so well. "It's been on my mind all day. I almost told you up in the lighthouse, you know, but I was a bit worried you'd chuck me out a window ... "

She laughed, elbowing him playfully in the ribs.

* * *

He drifted toward sleep, remembering. Yes, it had been a marvellous day. Like an unexpected gift. He felt more relaxed and contented than he had in ages. Of course, Sam was always good company, but today had been different somehow. Special. They hadn't spoken about work once, he realised, and yet they'd never run out of things to talk about. He smiled drowsily in the darkness, wondering if Sam _ever_ ran out of things to talk about. At any rate, she'd seemed to enjoy herself as much as he.

Milner suddenly realised with a jolt that he hadn't once thought about Jane all day. Her absence had been his constant companion through the past lonely year. Not a day had gone by when he hadn't missed her presence, her touch, the sound of her voice, mourning the lost happiness of that first halcyon year of marriage before the war had changed everything. Until today. He felt a pang of shock and something queerly akin to guilt. _Does this mean I'm starting to get over her? _he wondered, before the old longing rushed back over him like a wave and he knew he couldn't be. Jane was his wife. He'd married her for love, fully expecting her to remain by his side for life. Much as he wanted to shield himself from the pain of loving a woman who'd deserted him, shutting off his feelings had proved impossible. Without meaning to he found himself reaching out to the empty place next to him in bed, the place where she should have been. He sighed deeply, then rolled over, turning his back on his absent wife and seeking the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

Far away in Yorkshire Christopher Foyle sat in his darkened room peeking through the blackout curtains, watching the runway lights flick on and off across the moor. It was nearly midnight now and he'd heard nothing from Andrew since he'd stormed out of the house this afternoon. _Did he find an opportunity to speak to Millie before he'd had to go back on duty?_ he wondered. _Has she agreed to go with him to see a doctor? Is the wedding still on for the morning? Or _– his stomach twisted – _is Andrew now so angry with me that he no longer wants me to come?_


	8. Chapter 8: A Change of Plans

_Saturday 7 March 1942, eight o'clock in the morning_

Foyle was fastening his best silver cufflinks when he heard a knock at the front door. He froze, listening to Mrs. Holly's light step in the hall, the sound of the door opening. Though muffled by his closed bedroom door, he could make out the woman's soft speech followed by a baritone rumble. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he crossed the room in a few long strides and yanked the door open, heedless of his appearance – open collar, tie dangling loose, braces hanging round his hips. Heart pounding, he leaned just far enough over the banister to glimpse the newcomer.

One glance told him his son had suffered a turbulent night. Uncombed, unshaven and puffy-eyed, the younger man peered up the flight and met his father's eyes. "Andrew …" Foyle said huskily and gestured for his son to come up.

Andrew sat on one of the twin beds, twisting his leather motorbike helmet in his hands. "You needn't bother with all that," he said vaguely, gesturing at his father's half-donned Sunday best. "It's all off."

Foyle's heart leapt, but he was careful to keep his face neutral. "Off. You mean … postponed?"

"Nope. Called off. It's over." Andrew flung the helmet unceremoniously onto a chair into the corner and followed it with his leather jacket. He wasn't in uniform, his father saw, but wore a thick white roll-necked jumper and faded grey trousers.

Relief flooded through Foyle like a wave. Mechanically he slid the length of silk necktie from around his neck and dropped it on top of the clothes in his open case. "Tell me," he said.

"Why? Does it matter? You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

He was surprised by the hostile edge to his son's voice, but felt the accusation deserved a fair answer. "Yes," he replied, looking his son squarely in the face. "Yes, I did. But it's what you wanted as well. Wasn't it?"

His frankness seemed to disarm his son. He stared as his father for a moment and Foyle could see the tension draining from his face. He gave a quick, jerky nod and looked away.

Foyle sank down on the other bed and faced his son. "What happened?" he asked gently.

"A complete bloody mess." Andrew's voice was hollow. "I talked to her last night, like you said. Told her I was concerned about her health and all that, and had she seen a doctor. She didn't want to discuss it, but I told her it was better for both of us to be sure. When I said I thought we should put off the wedding until after she'd seen someone, she hit the roof."

"She got upset?"

"Angry. She screamed like a fishwife. I'd never seen – I mean, I didn't know she had such a temper. She called me names, even threw things - " Andrew broke off. No need to repeat Millie's ugly accusations, although he knew he wouldn't forget them any time soon.

His father, however, had no difficulty filling in the blanks. "She blamed me, I expect?"

A glum nod. "You could say that."

"Hmmm. And then what happened?"

"She railed and carried on until the Wing Co. came down to see what all the fuss was about. Can't blame him, really - there it was, eleven o'clock at night and she's having a tantrum and smashing dishes in the mess. I think half the unit must've heard her. There was just no reasoning with her. God, it was - " he stopped and ran a hand over his face, Millie's strident shrieks echoing in his head. _"It's your bleedin' father, innit, Andy! What business has he got, sticking his nose in? Thinks I'm not good enough for you, don't he, the friggin' old git!"_

He heaved a sigh. "Anyway, Winco ordered me out and dealt with her himself. I went back to my quarters, but I didn't hear anything else until about half-past six this morning, when she came round and threw gravel up at my window. I came down and she told me everything was off. Called me a pig and said she wouldn't marry me if I was the last man on earth."

"But the baby?"

He ran both hands through his already-dishevelled hair, tousling it still further. "A … a false alarm, she said. Seems she wasn't really pregnant at all. Just … late. It was only this morning that … well, that she knew for sure."

His father's eyes narrowed. The timing seemed suspiciously convenient to him, but he supposed it _was _possible, if unlikely. He wondered if Andrew realised how close he'd probably come to being duped, but refrained from pointing it out, at least for the time being. The lad looked utterly done in. Even as he thought this, his son kicked off his shoes and threw himself back on the bed, hands behind his head. "Wonder if she really believed she was, or if she was shamming the whole time?" he murmured, less to his father than to the ceiling.

Foyle chewed his lip. "Don't suppose we'll ever know, Andrew."

There was a long silence in the room, punctuated only by the rustling of Foyle's trousers as he crossed his legs. Finally he said, "I'm sorry it's worked out this way, son. I know you didn't want to marry her but it didn't have to be so … unpleasant."

Andrew shrugged. "It's over, anyway."

"Bound to be awkward, though. You'll see her around. The base is too small; you won't be able to avoid her."

"Actually, no. She's being transferred to 10 Group, immediate effect. She said Winco carpeted her good and proper last night and he's packing her off some Godforsaken hole on the Welsh coast as punishment. Pembrey? Pemberley? Something like that. She says that's all my fault too."

"I see." Foyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Millie had described herself as "hopeless" at her job, and her presence was doubtless a distraction to the men at the 'drome. He'd seen as much for himself. They were probably glad to have an excuse to be rid of her.

"She's leaving some time this morning. That's why I cleared out. I'd really rather avoid any more scenes. Mind if I just stick around here for a while?"

"Of course not."

"Thanks, Dad." Andrew's voice was faint and uncharacteristically humble.

Foyle rose and stood at the window once more, hands jammed in his pockets, looking out across the green sweep of moor. _Thank God_, he thought. All things considered, it was as positive an outcome as he could have hoped for. Awkward and embarrassing as it had been, disaster had been averted. The knot of tension in his stomach began to dissolve as he rested his forehead against the cold glass for a long moment.

Finally he turned back to the bed, intending to ask if his son was hungry. It seemed unlikely that he'd managed breakfast in the midst of all this turmoil and he certainly looked as if he could do with a decent meal. But the words died on his lips. Andrew was asleep. As his father watched he rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm round the pillow, looking so like the boy he'd once been that Foyle was pierced by pang of paternal love. Carefully he drew a blanket up over the sleeping form, wishing it lay in his power shield his son from pain and trouble.


	9. Chapter 9: Father and Son

Sam turned to Milner expectantly soon as he rejoined her in the little room off the prison entrance hall. "Well?" she asked. "Any luck?" His satisfied expression gave her the answer. "Really? Oh, well done!"

Once they were settled in the car she demanded the details, which he was happy enough to share with her. "Prout admitted that he'd worked with a ring out of Bethnal Green. About a year ago they started putting pressure on Billy to take his place. Apparently the pickings for housebreakers are pretty slim up in London. Anyway, it seems the boy resisted for a time until they started making threats against his mother."

"So you were right. He _was_ being coerced," said Sam, downshifting as she manoeuvred the car round a sharp bend in the road. "That ought to make things a bit easier on him, shouldn't it?"

"It should, yes. It ought to make a big difference, especially considering his age."

"But can you prove it? I mean, Clive Prout can't give evidence for his brother from Dartmoor, can he? And even if he could, would a jury be likely to believe the word of a convict?"

Milner smiled inwardly, thinking how much like a detective the girl was beginning to sound. She really had learnt a great deal about police procedure and building a case over the past year or two; coupled with her natural curiosity and quick intelligence, this newly acquired knowledge was making her a valuable asset. "Probably not," he agreed, "but luckily Prout had kept a letter Billy wrote him last year, asking for advice on how to deal with the threats. Nice little piece of evidence, that."

She glanced over at him. "You saw it?"

Milner patted his inside jacket pocket. "Better than that."

"He actually _gave _it to you?" said Sam, sounding impressed.

"Well … I managed to persuade him that it would be in his brother's best interest."

"I say, you must be pleased! A complete success. It was certainly worthwhile coming all the way out here, then, wasn't it?"

"Not a complete success, no. I'd love to get more particulars on this East London ring. Be nice to put the whole lot of them where they belong. But Prout wasn't feeling _that _co-operative, I'm afraid. He told me enough to help his brother but he wasn't about to shop anyone deliberately, more's the pity. There are a couple of surnames in the letter I can follow up on, and of course I'll try to get more out of Billy, but in the end I expect I'll have to hand the file along to Scotland Yard. East London's their patch; they're in a better position to deal with it than we are."

Sam smiled over at him. _Typical_, she thought admiringly. _He's so dedicated, so determined to make a success of everything he puts his hand to, no matter how much effort it costs him._ "All the same, Milner, it sounds like congratulations are in order. Mr Foyle will be pleased."

* * *

It was past noon when Andrew finally awoke. He staggered downstairs, looking groggy, and found his father seated in the lounge flipping through an old copy of the _London Illustrated News_. "Gosh, Dad, I'm sorry!" he apologised. "I never meant to pass out on you like that. You should have woken me."

"Not at all. You needed it. Feeling better?"

"Much. Hungry, though. Is too late for lunch?"

"No. Why don't you go have a bit of a wash and we can go out?" The son ran a self-conscious hand over his stubbled cheek before heading back upstairs to make use of his father's comb and razor. Ten minutes later he returned, looking a good deal more presentable and with jacket and cap in hand. "Got an idea, Dad. There's not much here in the village. Why don't we go into York? I wouldn't mind getting away from here for a bit."

"Fine with me. Shall we ring for a taxi?" Foyle replied, following him outside.

"No need, I've got my bike."

His father's eyebrows rose. "You expect me to get on that thing?" he asked, surveying the motorbike dubiously.

"Come on, Dad. Don't you trust me?" There was a mischievous glint in Andrew's eye as he threw a leg over the seat and kicked the engine into life. "Just hold on tight and we'll be there in no time." After a moment's pause, his father pushed his hat low on his forehead and did as he was told, wondering how his son had managed to talk him into this. He was glad that no one from home could see a Chief Superintendent travelling in such an undignified manner.

True to Andrew's word, they covered the few miles to York in a very few minutes and were soon seated in one of the town's nicer restaurants. By the end of the meal Foyle was relieved to see his son looking considerably better, fortified by food and sleep. "When are you due back?" he asked.

"Not until Monday. I had a weekend pass, you know, for the … for the honeymoon, you know. So I'm not in a rush for once. What would you like to do?" Andrew lit a cigarette as they stepped onto the pavement.

Foyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I've always fancied seeing York Minster."

In the end they saw the cathedral and much more besides. They spent the afternoon wandering about the medieval city, from Bootham Bar to the Minster Close, past the Mansion House and magnificent Guildhall and down to Clifford's Tower, then across the river to Micklegate Bar. They saw Roman ruins, medieval churches and the remains of the ancient city wall, much of which was still standing. York had been lucky enough to escape much bomb damage, so most of the historic sights remained intact.

They took it at a leisurely pace, Foyle letting his son act as guide. He let Andrew take the lead in the conversation as well, trying to avoid touchy subjects and ease any remaining strain between them. He sensed something was disturbing the lad, something deeper than the recent unpleasantness with Millie, and hoped that in time he might let his guard down enough to disclose it. At first they spoke mostly about inconsequential matters like fishing, books and the ever-more-restrictive rationing, Andrew amusing his father with several jokes about the newly-announced soap rationing. This led into reminiscences about events from bygone years - incidents from the boy's school days, long-ago family holidays and even a few wistful mentions of the beloved wife and mother now ten years gone. Gradually the tense set of Andrew's shoulders relaxed and some of the worry lines on his face began to smooth out.

Appetites whetted by their long walk, they opted for an early dinner. Now the talk turned to the war news – the fierce fighting in North Africa and Russia, the recent British defeats in Malaya and Singapore and the arrival in England of the first American troops. "Bomber Command's got a new Air Marshal, you know," Andrew said, pushing away his plate and gesturing to the waiter for another drink. "This bloke Harris. Just came on a few weeks ago. Real fighter, this one. Word is he's going to shake things up. Up to now, you know, we've concentrated mostly on defensive flying but Harris is looking to change all that. We're going to be flying a lot more missions over Germany – give them a taste of what the Luftwaffe's been dishing out over here. High time. Anyway, that's where the action's going to be, starting soon, especially when the Yanks get a chance to start doing their bit. Makes me think …" he broke off.

"Think what?"

"Nothing," said Andrew after a long pause. "Just something that's been on my mind lately."

_Aha,_ thought Foyle, unable to suppress a sudden frisson of alarm. "Makes what you're doing all the more important, I should think," he observed in as neutral a tone as he could manage. "Long-range fighter support will be critical for Bomber Command."

"True," said Andrew. "It's just that … well, I've been posted to OTUs for over a year now. I'm starting to think I've been an instructor too long. I'm getting stale. Maybe it's time …" his father waited, heart in his mouth … "time I went back on ops."

A long silence fell over their table. Foyle took up his napkin and folded it precisely by his plate, searching for words. When he spoke, his voice was husky. "You think that's best?"

"I don't know, Dad." His voice was low but his father could hear the raw edge beneath the words. "They could use me, that's for sure. My experience … not many pilots have logged as many ops as me. These new chaps we're sending out – they're _kids_, Dad. Eighteen, nineteen. Every twelve weeks a new group comes through. We teach them what we can and three months later they're in the thick of it. It's a bloody meat market up there. What chance have they got? And here I am, tucked away in this safe little OTU miles from anywhere teaching lads who look like sixth-formers how to fly and fight until they get the chop. I'm not sure how much longer I can stick it."

He could feel his son's anguish like a physical pain. _What can I say to him? _he wondered bleakly. Much as he wanted to beg Andrew not to put himself back in such danger, he knew he hadn't the right. But the thought of returning to a constant state of worry was nearly unendurable. The sleepless nights, the surge of panic at every ring of the telephone, the sick feeling of dread that never left the pit of his stomach … where would he find the strength?

He reached for his water glass to moisten his dry mouth. "Andrew," he managed, "I can't tell you what do. I don't want to see you go back on ops, of course I don't, but if you feel this is something you must do … think about it, please. Take some time. I understand that you're feeling guilty but remember you _have_ done your bit, son. You were operational through the heaviest action of the war. It was you and your mates – Rex, Douglas, Greville and all the rest – who saved this country from invasion. And don't discount the importance of what you're doing now, either. Without good instructors our pilots don't stand a chance."

Andrew nodded slowly as he digested his father's words. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said finally, realising belatedly what a shock his announcement must have been.

"Don't be. I'm glad you told me. Just promise me one thing, will you?"

"What?"

"Don't decide anything without discussing it with me first. All right?"

"Of course, Dad. I won't. I promise." The steely blue eyes met his brown ones for a long moment, a silent connection between father and son which conveyed more than words ever could.


	10. Chapter 10: A Visit to the Vicarage

The drive back to Hastings proved unexpectedly eventful for the detective sergeant and his driver.

The changeable English weather was at fault. Yesterday's sunshine had given way to overcast skies and as the afternoon wore on fog began to blow in from the sea. Somewhere past Portsmouth Milner glanced nervously over at the girl, whose brow was knitted in concentration as she stared into the rapidly thickening mist beyond the windscreen. "Sam," he began, "perhaps we ought to think about stopping for the night. This is getting dangerous – "

He broke off at a startled gasp from his companion, steadying himself against the door as she stepped hard on the brake. "What's that?" she asked, indicating a dark shape just ahead.

It was a lorry, he realised, alighting for a closer look, an olive-coloured Army vehicle which had run off the road in the fog and tipped sideways in a ditch. Further investigation revealed a pair of soldiers trapped in the cab, one bleeding heavily from a gash on the forehead.

The next hour was a blur of activity –– prying the lorry's door open with a tyre iron, gently extricating the injured men, tending to their wounds, ferrying them to hospital. By the time Milner had spoken with the doctor, a local constable and their commanding officer the fog had grown still denser. "This settles it," he told the girl as they returned to the Wolseley. "We'll have to find some place to stay. It'll be dark soon and it's getting like pea soup out here. Wonder if there's a hotel or something nearby?"

"Oh, that shouldn't be necessary," Sam assured him as she started the engine. "We're well past Chichester, I think. Only a few miles from home. Mother and Dad will be happy to put us up."

"Are you sure? I hadn't realised we were so close." Milner was relieved. Staying in a hotel in Plymouth with Sam – in separate rooms, of course – hadn't seemed inappropriate because they'd been on legitimate police business, but stopping the night so close to home made him oddly uncomfortable. It seemed to smack of impropriety. Delivering her to her parents' doorstep would relieve any worries about appearances. "That's marvellous, but – well, I wouldn't want to impose on them. Is there a pub in the village where I can stay?"

"Don't be silly! Mother loves company."

Another thought occurred to him. "They will be home, won't they? They wouldn't have gone away for the weekend?"

She flashed him a quick amused glance. "What, my parents? Impossible. Vicars _never_ go away for the weekend."

* * *

Sam was right, of course. Mr and Mrs Stewart were delighted by their daughter's unexpected appearance and immediately insisted that the travellers stop for the night. He was easily persuaded to accept their hospitality.

Milner enjoyed his visit in the Stewart home. He had met Sam's father once before but never her mother, a thin, greying woman with her daughter's dark eyes and quick smile. Lyminster's vicarage was a comfortable and welcoming home, all chintz and soft chairs with a tranquilly ticking grandfather clock in the hall. They took their dinner at the kitchen table to save fuel, the Stewarts apologising for the humble setting. It couldn't have mattered less. The war had done away with a great many such formalities, after all.

After dinner they all sat round a small, cosy sitting room just off the kitchen, warmed as much by the genuine affection between the reunited family as by the radiant heat of the Aga. At half-past eight Mr Stewart set aside his teacup and switched on the wireless. "Dad never misses _ITMA_!" explained Sam, curled up next to her mother on the sofa. She had changed out of her MTC khakis into an old jumper and a kilt that looked like part of a long-discarded school uniform. With her hair down and clipped loosely back from her face, she looked like a girl in her teens, an impression enhanced by the daughterly role she naturally assumed under her parents' roof. _It's just the sort of home I would have expected her to come from,_ he reflected, watching her as she laughed at one of Tommy Handley's jokes. _Quiet and provincial, yes, but filled with love and kindness and security. _ _No wonder she's such a caring and compassionate person; she comes by it naturally. I wonder if she realises how lucky she is, growing up in a home like this?_

* * *

_Sunday 8 March 1942_

The crowing of a rooster woke Milner next morning at first light. The Stewarts, it seemed, followed the wartime practice of keeping chickens to supplement their egg ration.

He dressed and went downstairs quietly, thinking he might read until the family awoke, but had only just picked up a discarded newspaper when he heard another step on the stair. "Good morning," Iain Stewart greeted him. "I didn't expect to find you up, Sergeant Milner. You're also an early riser, I take it?"

"I'm afraid I am. Good morning, sir. I hope I'm not disturbing anyone."

"Not at all, not at all! I always rise at dawn myself. I find an early-morning constitutional just the thing to begin the day. A chance for reflection and contemplation. Nothing like a bit of fresh air and exercise, you know, to clear the mind and refresh the spirit. You're most welcome to join me."

After a moment's consideration, Milner nodded. "Thank you, Mr Stewart. I think I'd like that."

A few minutes later they were striding briskly along a footpath that wound up a steep hill on the outskirts of the village, the detective clad in a borrowed waxed jacket and Wellingtons. The air was chilly but the early-morning light showed the previous day's mist dissipating. "I must say, it makes a pleasant change, having company for my morning stroll," remarked the vicar. "I've never been able to persuade Samantha of the benefits of rising with the dawn, and as for Mrs Stewart, well, sadly her health prevents her from joining me as she once did. She suffers from rheumatism in her joints, you see, especially in her hands and her knees, and the pain is most acute in the early morning. In the past year or two the condition has become so severe that she is unable to rise and dress without assistance."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes, it's a great trial to her. The pain prevents her from doing so much good in the parish – arranging altar flowers, leading the knitting circle, rolling badges with the Women's Institute – as well as tending to the house and the garden as she used to." He gave a regretful sigh. "It would be easier of course if Samantha were home. She could ease so many burdens ... and of course, we miss her a great deal."

"I'm sure you do, sir," said the younger man sympathetically.

"My wife and I are most grateful to you for stopping the night with us," continued the older man. "We don't see nearly as much of Samantha as we'd like. It's reassuring to see that she is safe and well, especially in such perilous times. We hear such _dreadful_ stories about young women in uniform these days, you know, far from the guidance and protection of home … one can't help but worry, you know."

Milner suppressed a smile, thinking that Sam's father sounded more concerned about moral lapses than about physical danger. But then he remembered Lucy Smith, the nineteen-year-old WAAF impregnated by her superior officer, and some of the other stories that had made the rounds over the past year or two. "I don't think you need to worry about Sam, sir. She's very levelheaded, you know. And we're grateful to have her working with us. She's an enormous help."

"Is she? Just as a driver?"

"Not just that. She's useful in other ways as well." Milner drew in a deep breath as they reached the crest of the hill, hoping his companion wouldn't notice. The Reverend Iain Stewart might be some thirty years his senior, but he was obviously in excellent physical condition. "She's learnt a great deal about police work over the past couple of years."

Stewart's forehead puckered with concern. "Indeed? In exactly what ways is she _useful_, Sergeant?"

"Oh, little things, mostly, but they make a difference. Paperwork, errands …" Seeing the older man still looking worried, he tried to clarify. "Take last week, for example. We seized a large quantity of stolen goods – silver, candlesticks, that sort of thing. It all has to be examined and catalogued in detail. Normally we'd have an evidence officer to handle most of it, but as we're short-staffed we have to look after it ourselves. Sam took notes for me while I dictated descriptions for my report – it took less than half the time it would if I'd had to do it alone. She's quick, she's observant and she writes a neat hand. Next week I expect she'll help me go over old theft reports looking for matches, if Mr Foyle doesn't need her."

Sam's father relaxed. "I see. Well, that doesn't sound too dangerous, I must say."

"No, no, not at all! Mr Foyle is very careful to shield her from anything dangerous or disturbing," he said reassuringly, thinking it best not to mention Sam's brief foray into undercover work at the Bexhill fuel depot. "Driving him is still her primary job, of course, but when he's at the station there's not a lot for her to do and she's always willing to help out when she can."

"I'm sure she is, Sergeant. Samantha is nothing if not enthusiastic. But I still feel it unnatural, you know. The proper place for a young woman is at home, not hanging about a police station."

"Well, what about an Army base? An aerodrome? Women are doing all sorts of unconventional jobs in this war, you know."

"Don't remind me! I shudder to think of it. A thousand times worse. Far from home, preyed upon by unscrupulous men … one wonders what's going to come of it all."

"Perhaps you should be relieved Sam's doing her bit where she is, Mr Stewart. Now they've started conscripting women there's no telling where she could have ended up."

"That's true," sighed the vicar. "You're right, of course. I'm sure she's in good hands with you and Mr Foyle and I _am_ grateful she's not in worse circumstances. This _dreadful_ war – " he broke off as Milner's foot slipped on some loose gravel on the footpath. "Are you all right?" he asked as the younger man caught his balance.

"Fine, fine," he replied. "The left, never quite as steady, you know …" He noticed his companion's puzzled expression. "Surely Sam has told you about my leg?"

"Your leg?"

Milner was a bit surprised. _She chatters,_ he reflected, _but she does know how to be discreet when it comes to something sensitive. _He patted his thigh. "This is fake. I was with the Terriers in Norway the first year of the war. I took a direct hit and lost half of my left leg. The prosthetic is marvellous, but of course it's not as sensitive a real foot."

Iain Stewart looked shocked. "I'm terribly sorry, Sergeant Milner, I had no idea. Samantha never said a word. How dreadful for you."

"Yes, it was a … a difficult adjustment."

The vicar sighed. "It's always hard to understand why the Lord allows such things to happen. What purpose can be served by such senseless pain and destruction … is it merely to test our faith?"

His words struck uncomfortably close to home. _How can he know_ _about my spiritual struggles? _Milner wondered._ Can he somehow tell that I feel abandoned by God? _"Nothing can replace what you've lost, of course, but perhaps you've been able take comfort in what you've been able to retain? You're able to get about unassisted. You can work. In time you can look forward to marriage, a family, a nearly normal life. Yes?"

Milner hesitated. He had only shared the truth about Jane's desertion with a handful of people – first Sam, then later his sister and Mr Foyle – but something about Mr Stewart's manner invited confidence. "It's not as simple as that," he heard himself saying. "I already had a wife, you see. We were only married two years when this happened." He gestured toward his leg. "She's … well, she's been unable to come to terms with it."

Iain Stewart's gently sympathetic countenance seemed oddly familiar before Milner realised that he'd seen the same expression many times on his daughter's face. "I see," he said. "What a pity. Yet another burden for you to cope with. That must make for a difficult home life."

Milner shook his head. "It did, but … not anymore. She's living in Swansea with her sister now."

"Oh, dear. I'm very sorry to hear that. Do you think it possible that, given time, she'll be able overcome her feelings about your injury? Patience and prayer can work wonders, you know."

Milner looked away, across a stretch of green pasture to the fading pink streaks in the eastern sky. "I haven't given up hoping," he admitted huskily.


	11. Chapter 11: Coming Home

_Sunday 8 March 1942, 9:30 AM_

Foyle snapped the twin locks of his case closed and turned to his son, leaning against the doorframe with hands buried in his pockets. "That's it," he said. "Taxi here?"

"Not yet," replied Andrew, "Sure you won't change your mind and let me give you a lift?"

"Hardly. Once on that contraption was enough, thank you." Foyle pulled a wry face and Andrew grinned. "Sure you don't need any cash?"

"No, Dad, I'm fine, thanks." His son straightened up and reached for the case. "Listen, thanks a lot for coming all the way up here. Sorry it was such a mess, but - well, it was good to see you, anyway. Wish I could get home more often. It's hard to find anybody up here to give me a good game of chess."

"Well." Foyle fingered his tie, touched. "I'll be sure to have the board ready when you do get home. No idea, I suppose, when you might manage enough leave?"

"Afraid not. But - look, I'll write, Dad. I really will."

"Seems to me I've heard that before," replied his father with a smile as a car horn sounded in the road below. "Ah, there's my taxi."

His son accompanied him down to the car, where he surprised the older man with a brief, tight hug. After a moment Foyle broke the embrace with a firm pat or two on the back. "Goodbye, Andrew. Look after yourself. And - " his eyes flashed, telegraphing all the paternal admonitions he had refrained from putting into words - "_do_ be careful, won't you?"

* * *

_Monday 9 March 1942, half-past seven in the morning_

Sam raised a hand to the brass doorknocker, then let it fall back, her courage faltering. _Don't be ridiculous_, she scolded herself. _It'll be fine! Just like any other day … _She drew in a deep breath and then reached up and rapped firmly on the shiny black door.

She heard his step approaching and the door swung inward. "Sam," Foyle acknowledged her. "Come in." She stepped into the hall, returning his greeting politely as he closed the door against the cold.

He wasn't completely ready for the day, she saw, as he usually was when she arrived to collect him - coatless, tie knotted loosely, waistcoat hanging open. "Won't be a moment," he promised. _He looks tired_, she thought as she watched his fingers move nimbly up the row of buttons, restoring his usual immaculate appearance, then dropped her eyes to the carpet lest he catch her staring. _Please, don't let him talk about it,_ she prayed silently. _I don't want things to be any more awkward than they already are …_

He cast a quick glance at her as he shrugged into his coat, noting the downcast eyes, the hands fidgeting with her gloves. She looked hesitant and a bit forlorn, standing in her accustomed spot under Rosalind's watercolours, her usual morning sparkle nowhere in evidence. _Damn_, he thought inwardly, cursing Andrew afresh for his callous behaviour_. I just hope she doesn't blame me for all this … _"Sam," he began, but she had started to speak at the same moment.

"How was your journey, sir?"

"Tiring. Trains were overcrowded, kept stopping. Didn't get in until past midnight." She gave a sympathetic little nod as he reached for his hat; it was a typical description of wartime travel conditions. "Listen, Sam. About this business … I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

She coloured slightly, lifting her shoulders in an unsuccessfully nonchalant gesture. "It's all right, sir. Nothing to do with you anyway."

He relaxed a bit; at least she wasn't upset with _him_. Not that he had expected it, but still, it was a relief to hear her say so. "I know, but … still. I wish things hadn't worked out this way. Utterly unfair to you. I told him so."

Her lips twitched in a tiny smile. _I just bet you did_, she thought. "Well, these things happen. Best to just put it behind us, as my father says. Water under the bridge. I hope they'll be very happy together."

Foyle fingered his hat uncomfortably. "Well, as to that …" he hesitated. This was the question he had wrestled with all during the long homeward journey: should he tell Sam that the marriage hadn't come off? Or would that be interfering? How in God's name had he found himself in the middle of this situation when that was the very last place he wanted to be? "About the wedding, Sam …"

"Don't," she broke in, her voice unexpectedly sharp. This was exactly what she'd been dreading as she stood on his doorstep. _I don't want to hear about how beautiful she is, about how happy they are together._ _I'd really rather not know._ "Please. I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind, sir."

His eyebrows went up in surprise. _Guess that settles that_, he thought. _Perhaps it's better this way._ "Right," he replied gently. "Fair enough. Ready to go?" He reached for the door, holding it open for her, and was rewarded with one of her quick smiles as she passed him on her way to the car.

**FINIS**


End file.
